


up where the air gets thin

by malapertqueen



Series: QPQVerse ficlets [2]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: F/F, F/M, Infidelity, M/M, Multi, QPQVerse, Relationship Problems, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-25
Updated: 2016-04-25
Packaged: 2018-06-04 08:31:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6650449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/malapertqueen/pseuds/malapertqueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everybody wants a happy ending. </p><p>But not everybody gets one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	up where the air gets thin

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Quid Pro Quo](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5880157) by [rillrill](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rillrill/pseuds/rillrill). 



Gossip travels fast in the White House, even between the East and West Wings, so it doesn’t take long for Eliza to hear that the President and his Chief of Staff are barely on speaking terms. It does take her slightly longer to find out that there may have been some kind of disagreement in the Oval Office that preceded this round of stoney silence, but by the time she manages to confirm that something has happened, she also learns that Alex isn’t going up to Camp David tonight with the rest of the senior staff for the South American trade summit.

Ostensibly, there’s some nonsense about him wanting to stay behind to keep an eye on the preliminary budget negotiations but Eliza knows that’s a lie; just last week, Alex had said something about looking forward to going to Camp David for the sheer fact that he and George might actually get a little bit of time together for once instead of the handful of stolen moments they’ve subsided on for months now.

It’s a feeling Eliza knows all too well--Martha’s time isn’t as rigidly structured as the president’s, but as First Lady she has more than enough claim on her presence every day. And with the need to present a unified front as the First Family, George and Martha spend a lot more time together in public and ‘in private’ than they had even before George won the nomination. There’s a growing distance between Eliza and Martha, an ever-present ache in Eliza’s chest like a bruise that she can’t stop touching just to feel something, anything, besides the gradual creeping of numb acceptance.

They all knew the White House was going to be hell on their arrangement but somehow Eliza has always held out (a rather naive, perhaps) hope that they could make things work if they tried hard enough. But if Alex and George are fighting enough that the staff is talking about it, then her relationship is definitely not the only one feeling the strain.

Given that she and Alex are still ‘dating’ for the public eye, it doesn’t raise any suspicions when she leaves the office just after he does that evening. It’s much later than either of them would normally go home but the president has already left for Camp David with Martha, and Eliza had begged off the trip last week, citing a scheduled meeting on their education initiative that couldn’t wait.

She’s glad she did so now as she waits for one of Alex’s Secret Service agents lets her into his apartment. The thought of leaving Alex alone tonight doesn’t sit right with her. It’s not terribly unusual for one of them to stay at the other’s apartment for the sake of keeping the DC gossip hounds at bay. Realistically, they probably should have moved in together months ago, but it seemed to be a line neither she nor Alex wanted to cross.

Alex’s apartment is dark but his shoes are kicked off in a mess by the door and his ever-present backpack is leaning up against the wall next to them. It makes her lips twitch in a brief smile--five years together and George still hasn’t quite broken Alex of the habit of leaving his things everywhere. She toes off her heels and leaves them in a tidy line next to the door, her handbag and coat hung neatly on the hooks above. There’s no need for her to turn on a light, she knows the layout well enough to make her way through the spacious, open-concept loft to the bedroom down the hall.

The door to the bedroom is wide open, the only light coming from the diffused glow from the streetlights outside his window. It's enough light to make out the shadow of Alex laying on the bed, face-up, staring at the ceiling.

In this particular moment silence seems like the best choice so Eliza carefully navigates her way around the room to sit on the edge of the bed, close to Alex’s head. There’s no sound other than the rasp of Alex’s shaky breathing and the faint noise of the street outside--a door slamming, a few kids shouting, a rumble of music as a car drives down the street with its windows open. The kind of everyday background noise that she wouldn’t notice if it weren’t for the deafening silence in the bedroom. 

“I think it’s over.” Alex says finally, speaking at the ceiling like he can’t even bring himself to look at her. His words are spoken flatly, like he’s been repeating the words over and over to himself before actually voicing the thought. 

The words hit like a punch anyway, echoing a thought she’s had only in her lowest moments in the last few months as Martha’s grown more distant and the numbness in Eliza’s chest has made itself a familiar companion. “What happened?” she asks quietly, watching the way his face twists in a painful grimace.

“I made a comment about looking forward to some quiet time together at Camp David. And he just...” Alex takes a shuddering breath in and, for a moment, Eliza wonders if he might actually start to cry. “He said there wasn’t going to be time, that the trade negotiations were too important and that he’d have to spend more time with Martha because the ambassador’s wife would be there and they’d have to do more First Couple shit. And I just snapped.” 

She bites her lip, trying to pick her words carefully around the landmines of Alex’s broken heart. “I heard you had a fight.”

Alex laughs bitterly. “I told him that if he didn’t want to do this any more, he didn’t have to make excuses like I was some kid who couldn’t handle getting his feelings hurt.” He closes his eyes, grinding the heel of his palms against them. It’s one of his tells, Eliza knows, when he’s on the verge of a complete meltdown. “And then he said that maybe it was for the best if we kept things strictly professional from now on.”

The cool, logical part of her brain knows that up at Camp David, Martha and George are probably having a conversation about the two them right now. And she’d be willing to bet that George is just as shattered about this as Alex; he’ll hide it better, bury the hurt so deep no one would ever know it was there. But this time there’s no coming back from the cliff edge they’ve been dancing on for years--Alex and George have already fallen over and Eliza can feel the unsteady ground beneath her feet crumbling away with every passing day.

“Alex…” Eliza is helpless in the face of his misery. There’s no one else that Alex can talk to about this, no one who’d understand the unique situation of a loss that you can’t even mourn without causing the kind of questions that would ruin everything they’ve worked so hard to achieve. It’s just the two of them here, adrift in a dark sea of all the careful little lies they’ve hid behind for years.

Later, she won’t be able to give herself a good answer as to why she does it. Maybe they’ve been heading towards this for a while now and tonight is just the catalyst for the inevitable. Maybe it’s the way he turns his head to look at her, a sheen of tears in his dark eyes.

Whatever the reason, when she leans over and brushes her lips against his, he whimpers and there’s no turning back.

They haven’t done this in a long time ( _two years,_ her treacherous memory supplies _, Martha’s birthday present, in the Residence after the public party._ ). But tonight isn’t about anyone else; just the two of them, clinging to each other in desperation, less passion and more an attempt to feel something besides the emotional tidal wave that threatens to drown them both.

Alex’s hands shake as he unzips the back of her dress and peels it over her head, fingers barely skimming over the curves of her breasts and hips like he isn’t sure he’s allowed to touch her. She’s just as awkward when she undresses him, unfamiliar with the routine of men’s clothing, but they manage in a fragile silence until he’s left in nothing but a pair of plain cotton boxers.

(Eliza knows for a fact there’s a drawer full of lace panties in his dresser, some of which she helped him pick out years ago. She wonders how long they’ve been in there now, untouched and unworn, or if he even still has them.)

She kisses him harder, catching his lower lip between her teeth. His boxers join the rest of the clothing on the bedroom floor.

The cliff ledge beneath Eliza’s feet crumbles a little bit more.

She has the clarity of mind to find a condom in the drawer beside his bed, rolling in on with the momentary hesitation of a task only rarely performed.  They’ve never gone this far without their partners being in the same room--it’s always been something for Martha and George to command, never just for their own sake. A performance, artfully arranged for someone else’s pleasure, nothing more.

 _Fuck that_ , she thinks, uncharacteristically savage, and straddles Alex’s thighs, lowering herself slowly onto his cock. She can’t help the sharp inhale of breath at the stretch as her body accommodates him--she’s taken bigger, but only lifeless silicone, so different from the real thing that it’s hardly a fair comparison.

There’s nothing lifeless in the way she rides him, hard and fast, his fingers gripping her hips hard enough to bruise. She’s going to feel this for days, both the physical ache and the painful memory of Alex’s gaze fixed on her face, so open and vulnerable that she can’t help but lean forward to kiss him again.

Alex shudders beneath her, his hips snapping upward in a not-quite steady rhythm that gets even less steady as he presses his face against her shoulder, sobbing a mix of Spanish and English against her skin. She manages to pick out the syllables of her name and ‘please’ amongst the muffled sounds and it spurs her on, one hand finding its way into his hair to tangle the strands around her fingers and _pull_.

With a wordless cry, Alex arches under her and shudders as his orgasm sneaks up on both of them. She strokes him through it, fingers stroking his hair as he buries his face against her shoulder and clings to her, dry sobs wracking his too-thin frame. There’s nothing she can do other than hold him, silent and steady, even as she forces away the harsh prickle of tears in her own eyes.

The bitter flash of hatred she feels towards George in this moment is hardly unexpected, though entirely useless. Hating him won’t fix anything. There’s really nothing that can fix this, not when they’ve all been lying to themselves for so long about this ever working out well for any of them.

“I’m sorry,” Alex whispers into her shoulder, voice hoarse and thick with everything he’s still holding back. “I shouldn’t have--”

“Don’t.” The idea of him apologizing for what they’ve done makes her nauseous. "You have nothing to be sorry for." Impulsively, she kisses his forehead to soften the sharpness of her response and then gently pushes his shoulders back as she lifts herself off of Alex, taking care of the condom before she comes back to bed.

Alex watches her the whole time, his eyes tracking her movements as she sits next to him, close but not quite touching. “You didn’t...I could…?” he trails off as she shakes her head, finding it oddly sweet and a little heartbreaking that he’d even ask when his entire world has just fallen down around him.

“Not necessary.” What they just did wasn’t about getting off, not for her anyway, and Eliza’s not in the mood to have Alex reciprocate out of some sense of obligation. She’s selfish, but not that selfish.

And, selfishly, she really doesn’t want to think about the repercussions of everything that’s happened tonight, both between George and Alex and between her and Alex. And what will, eventually, happen between her and Martha because Eliza has never been able to keep a secret from her and she doesn’t want to start with this one. Talking about anything tonight won’t make tomorrow any easier, and she can tell that Alex is both physically and emotionally exhausted.

A glance at the alarm clock next to the bed tells her it’s nearly midnight. Just a little over six hours until they have to be back at the office and pretend like nothing is wrong. It makes her queasy to even think about work right now. “Do you want me to go?”

Eliza watches the expression on Alex’s face shift as he clearly considers saying yes before he sighs, answering her with a quick, unhappy shake of his head.  “No. I don’t want...” he swallows hard, looking away for a moment before he manages to meet her eyes again. “Stay. Please.”

“Okay,” she murmurs. Reaching for his hand, she gives his fingers a gentle squeeze, and forces away everything except the way he clutches at her hand like a lifeline. “I’ll stay.”

**Author's Note:**

> I hate happiness, apparently. I'm sorry. QPQ Verse, very loosely based on the idea of the "Presidential Timeline"
> 
> Totally unbeta'd, so feel free to point out mistakes.
> 
> Title is from Dessa's "The Man I Knew"
> 
> Come bother me on [Tumblr](http://malapertqueen.tumblr.com)


End file.
